


Rewarming

by kitestringer



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M, Worst-Case Scenario Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-25
Updated: 2010-04-25
Packaged: 2017-10-09 03:39:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/82626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitestringer/pseuds/kitestringer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John stops and looks at Rodney's hands, which are red and raw and trembling. "You don't have frostbite, Rodney."</p><p>"No, I'm serious." Rodney pokes at the skin of his left hand with one finger. "That feels hard to me. Feel it. I'm pretty sure the tissue is frozen. Does it feel hard to you?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rewarming

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place a few months after "Trinity" and contains some spoilers for that episode. Written for [](http://slodwick.livejournal.com/profile)[**slodwick**](http://slodwick.livejournal.com/)'s [Worst Case Scenario Challenge](http://www.livejournal.com/users/slodwick/525462.html#cutid1); a description of my assigned scenario can be found [here](http://pics.livejournal.com/kitestringer/pic/000a3gk8). Thanks to [](http://rustler.livejournal.com/profile)[**rustler**](http://rustler.livejournal.com/), for being typically encouraging and lovely and helpful and giving this story a look-see (a couple of them actually)—not to mention a sizable chunk of her Sunday—at the very last minute, and to [](http://slodwick.livejournal.com/profile)[**slodwick**](http://slodwick.livejournal.com/), for organizing this massive and truly kick-ass challenge.
> 
> Originally posted in September of 2005.

"Can you tell me your name?"

Rodney still seems a little woozy, but the look he gives John is gratifyingly withering. "Please."

"Humor me."

Rodney's eyes close, and his whole body tilts to the left. "Rodney McKay."

"Good! Now, how about my name?"

Rodney's eyes open a little as he slowly tilts back to the right. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. "Colonel."

John sighs heavily. "You'd better not be messing with me, McKay."

"You're the Colonel," Rodney says, shaking his head. "I know I'm right."

"Great," John mutters. He watches Rodney watching him in the dim light of their flashlights. He doesn't _look_ like he's messing with him. "Well, it is what you always call me, anyway. You know where we are?"

Rodney opens his eyes all the way and looks around, then winces and closes them again. "A very small tent on a very cold planet. When are we going home, by the way?"

"Depends on what you mean by 'home'," John says. This little round of twenty questions hasn't done anything to improve his mood. He busies himself by digging the first-aid kit out of his backpack. It's nearly pitch dark outside now, and Teyla and Ronon have either taken Zelenka back through the gate or started searching for them, depending on whether they were in the mood to follow his orders today. Either way, he and Rodney could be here for a while.

"I think I hit my head pretty hard on something. Ow." Rodney prods at his forehead with one finger.

"Well, poking at it isn't going to help, genius," John says, moving his hand away. "Here, just...let me clean it."

In point of fact, Rodney _had_ hit his head pretty hard on something. In spite of his best efforts, John had lost track of him in the storm. After a few minutes of frantic searching in horizontal snow that made it impossible to see more than a few feet in front of him, John had nearly tripped over Rodney's prone form. When he lifted his face off the ground, he saw a sharp rock and several drops of blood in the snow where his head had been.

"Oh, great. I probably have a concussion, or worse, but at least it will be _clean._ Ow. Ow. Ow. Careful! Ow. Ow." Rodney continues to complain as John swabs the cut on his forehead with alcohol, which John takes to be a good sign. "Seriously, though. When are we going home? Because I could really use a hot bath, actual medical attention from a trained professional..."

Rodney's last few words are barely intelligible through the chattering of his teeth. John's been so focused on Rodney's injury that his violent shivering had completely escaped his attention. "Yeah, okay, we need to get you out of those wet clothes before you go hypothermic on me on top of everything else."

"Oh my God," Rodney says, holding his hands immobile in front of his face. "I can't feel anything in my fingers. I think it's...oh no. No, no, no, no, no. Frostbite."

John stops and looks at Rodney's hands, which are red and raw and trembling. "You don't have frostbite, Rodney."

"No, I'm serious." Rodney pokes at the skin of his left hand with one finger. "That feels hard to me. Feel it. I'm pretty sure the tissue is frozen. Does it feel hard to you?"

"Rodney!"

Rodney jumps, startled, his mouth snapping shut.

"First things first. You need to get out of those clothes."

"I don't...um...well...I'm not entirely..." Rodney reaches for the zipper on his coat first with one hand, then the other. He tries to wedge the zipper pull between the sides of his hands, which works until the zipper gets caught. He looks up at John helplessly. "I have to avoid mechanical trauma to my fingers, unless you want them snapping off my hands like twigs."

"Rodney, you do not have frostbite. But here, fine, if it will make you happy..." John pulls the fabric free of the zipper and unzips it the rest of the way.

"I'm telling you, I _saw_ it happen once, in Antarctica," Rodney says, as he begins to slowly wriggle free of his coat. "Okay, so I didn't actually see the snapping part, but I heard about it from a guy who saw it, and I saw him when they brought him out to the medevac chopper—hey...that wasn't you flying it, was it?"

John decides to keep the fact that he _has_ actually seen the snapping part to himself. "No, but it's good to know you at least remember Antarctica. And that I'm a pilot. Don't suppose that means you remember my name yet, does it?"

"Of course I do, Colonel, don't be ridiculous." Rodney winces as John helps him get his sleeves over his hands. "Gently, please! I'd prefer that the coat comes off without taking my hands with it, thank you."

"Okay, no disturbing personality changes as a result of the head injury. I'm pretty sure that's a good sign."

"Ha ha." Coat now off, Rodney presses his wrists against his ears. When he's apparently satisfied that they aren't in imminent danger of breaking off, he moves on to his nose.

"See? No frostbite." John doesn't laugh when Rodney sneezes violently, holding his hands up and away like a surgeon prepping for the OR. "Bless you. Anyway, I know what frostbite looks like, believe it or not, and you don't have it."

"Wait, no, shut up...oh no, my feet." Rodney looks up at him, eyes wide. "I can't feel my feet, either. Oh my God, help me get these boots off."

"By which I suppose you mean 'Please take my boots off for me while I sit here and complain about how you're not doing it gently enough'."

"Look, if you want to be stuck out in the field in the middle of God knows where with a footless man as your only companion, please feel free to yank my boots off as roughly as you want, by all means. Oh, sure, laugh. That's great."

"Sorry, Rodney," John says, as he pulls off Rodney's second boot. "I don't mean to make light of your potential footlessness. Oh wait—on second thought, yes, I do, because _you don't have frostbite._ Now, all we need to do is get you out of these wet pants, wrap you in a blanket, and wait for the storm to pass. I promise, you're going to walk out of this tent with exactly the same number of appendages you walked in with."

"My pants?" Rodney's voice cracks, just a little. "That seems like an incredibly bad idea for... some reason I can't quite seem to put my finger on." He looks up at John in what appears to be honest confusion. "Does it seem like a good idea to you?"

"Yeah, that's why I suggested it. Pants. Wet. Cold. Bad."

"Right. Of course. Pants." He looks down at his zipper, then at his hands, then up at John again.

"Oh no." John throws Rodney's boots aside and sits back, crossing his arms.

"But..."

"No. I'm going to have to draw the line at taking your pants off for you. Rodney, your hands are _fine._ You can use them. Cross my heart."

"What do you know? Did they teach you _any_ cold-weather survival skills at the Air Force Academy? And by that I mean something other than how to swagger around looking devastatingly handsome in a pair of aviator shades until some local lass invites you into her cabin to get warm."

"Like I needed to learn _that_ in school." Rodney rolls his eyes as John smiles a winning smile. "But yes, they did teach us a thing or two about cold-weather survival, and I obviously don't need to remind you that I was stationed in Antarctica, too. You somehow remember that, even if you may or may not remember my name."

"Hmm. Antarctica," Rodney says, suddenly quiet. "That seems like a really long time ago, doesn't it?"

"I guess, yeah. It was more than a year ago now."

"Do you remember the first time we met?"

"Um. Yes?" Rodney's starting to get a strange, faraway look in his eyes. John waves a hand in front of them. Now might be a good time to check Rodney's pupils for signs of more serious injury, he thinks, and reaches for his flashlight.

"I couldn't figure out what to make of you. You know?" Rodney sits patiently as John shines his light first in one eye, then the other. "You didn't really seem like a soldier. And you were so..." He raises his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

John pauses, waiting. Rodney's pupils seem normal, and he kind of wants to hear the end of that sentence. But Rodney has trailed off and seems to be focusing on his feet again. He carefully flexes one leg until he can reach his sock, hooks a thumb inside it, and peels it off. "I've destroyed a solar system since then. I don't think too many guys in my class at Princeton could say that."

"Your memory seems to be getting better by the minute," John says quietly as he watches Rodney get his other sock off. He'd be surprised if a day went by without both of them thinking about what happened on Doranda.

"Oh yeah. I'm so glad that golden moment hasn't escaped me. It's just my short-term memory I seem to be having problems with. Is there gauze in that first-aid kit?"

"Here." He hands Rodney the roll.

"See, assuming one doesn't have aviator shades handy, this is what you do when you end up in the middle of nowhere with frostbite." Holding the roll between the palms of his hands, Rodney wraps layers of gauze loosely around his feet, threading it between his toes.

"And if you _had_ ended up with frostbite, I'd tell you you're doing exactly the right thing. Also, you really do still need to get those pants off."

"I don't think so," Rodney says, not meeting his eyes.

"Look, it's not that much warmer in here than it is out there. We need to get under a blanket with some hand warmers, sooner rather than later. So come on."

"I _can't._"

"Rodney..." Something in Rodney's expression makes him stop before saying something snide. Instead, he reaches out and pushes him gently. "Lie down. I'll do it."

"That's not what I meant—"

"I don't care _what_ you meant. You're soaking wet and shivering so hard I can practically feel the ground vibrating, but you'll be feeling a lot warmer in a second, if you just lie back and stop being a _pain_ about this."

Rodney takes a deep breath, eyes darting all around the tent, as if looking for a viable means of escape. Finally, he raises his chin and looks at John again. "Fine. I just...fine."

Rodney lets himself tilt backward until he's lying flat on the blanket that's spread out beneath them, and John stretches out next to him and reaches for the fly of Rodney's pants. He had planned to be quick and workmanlike about it, but the thing he always chooses to interpret as protectiveness twists and tightens into a knot in his chest, and he lays his hand against Rodney's trembling stomach for a few seconds.

"Rodney, just relax. You're going to be fine."

Rodney's eyes squeeze shut. "Maybe. Eventually," he says, his voice cracking.

When John moves his hand to unfasten the first button of Rodney's pants, Rodney's breath hitches. John looks up at him. "Don't worry, I won't snap your feet off."

"Much appreciated," Rodney says with a brief, harsh laugh. His eyes are still tightly shut.

John makes quick work of the buttons without looking at Rodney's face again. He takes hold of the waistband in both hands and works the pants down, over Rodney's thighs, down, down, then gently over each foot, one at a time. Rodney's feet are cold and pale, but not worryingly so. When John runs his hand from Rodney's knee to his ankle to make sure his thermal underwear is dry, Rodney gasps sharply, and a feeling John has no hope of misinterpreting sparks in the pit of his stomach.

"So, ah, tell me something. I'm still a little..." Rodney waves one hand in the vicinity of his head. His voice is strained. "Why exactly are we out here, anyway? And where are Teyla and Ronon?"

"You don't remember anything about an Ancient outpost?" John takes off his coat, then lies on his back to take off his own damp pants.

"I remember lots of things about Ancient outposts—but if there's one in particular I should be remembering from the past day or so, that's the one I'm having trouble with."

"Well," John says, digging two hand warmers out of Rodney's backpack. "A couple of days ago, you found something in the Ancient database about an outpost that served as a major research facility for shield technology. Ring any bells?"

"Hmm. Yes, I do remember that. There seems to be a distinct lack of outpost in our general vicinity at the moment though, hm?"

"Yeah, well, we were checking it out, but you were getting readings coming from a couple of kilometers away, and you thought it was probably the adjunct facility where they tested prototypes against weapons fire. So we left Teyla and Ronon with Zelenka, and you and I went to check it out."

"In a _blizzard_?"

"It wasn't a blizzard when we left. That all happened kind of suddenly. And then the radios went out, which was just the icing on the cake."

"And the tent?"

"When we don't have a puddle jumper and we're going to be any kind of distance from the gate, I like to come prepared for anything. You really don't remember any of this?"

"It's just...a little fuzzy. Like I heard about all this secondhand at some point, but I didn't do it myself."

"It'll come back." John snapped the discs inside the hand warmers and squished the contents around.

"No, no, I don't think that's a good idea. I can't thaw if I'm just going to freeze again. That's the absolute worst thing you can do if you have frostbite."

"Rodney."

"You go ahead, Colonel. I'll just lie here with the blanket over my legs."

"Maybe, just _maybe,_ if I say this enough times, you'll actually listen to me. _You do not have frostbite._ Except for what I'm guessing is a slight concussion, you are perfectly _fine._ Now you're going to lie here under this blanket with me if I have to tie you up and gag you, because if we spend too much more time arguing about it, one or both of us _could_ actually end up with frostbite."

Rodney gapes at him, open mouthed. "I'm going to what?"

"Just lie back and relax." John takes their second blanket and tucks one end around their feet, putting a hand warmer between them. He pulls the other end up around their shoulders and lets the other hand warmer lie between them at chest level. Then he turns their coats inside out, rolls them up, and gently lifts Rodney's head to wedge one of them beneath it as a makeshift pillow. "How does that feel?"

"Not bad, actually. But I still don't think..." Rodney holds his hands up for inspection in the dim light.

"Rodney." John reaches out to take hold of Rodney's right hand. Rodney yelps in terror, but John doesn't let go; instead, he tightens his grip and kneads his palm slowly. "Can you feel that?"

Rodney swallows hard. "Um. Yes?"

John works his way to the tips of Rodney's fingers. "Your skin feels fine. Not stiff, not even any colder than mine." He takes Rodney's left hand in his other hand and squeezes it. "You're okay. You're not frostbitten."

"Right. Well. I guess I'll...I'm forced to concede your point." Rodney's voice is breathless and barely audible over the howling of the wind. His eyes stay on his hands being held in John's. He isn't trying to pull away.

John loosens his grip without letting go, until they're holding hands comfortably, almost casually. "How does your head feel?"

"It hurts. But...I think I'm less confused now. Um, Colonel—"

"Why don't you ever use my first name?"

"I— What?"

"Teyla. Ronon. Elizabeth. Carson. Radek. But you never call me anything other than 'Colonel' or..." He raises his eyebrows in expectation.

"'Sheppard.' _Yes,_ I remember your name."

"So?"

"I do that with all the military personnel. It's nothing personal. I thought it was...appropriate."

"Appropriate."

"Yes. Appropriate. Isn't it?"

"In front of my soldiers, yes. But when we're alone?"

Rodney laughs nervously. "Well. How often does that happen, really?"

"It's happening right now."

Rodney looks away from their hands and into John's eyes, the last traces of his crooked half smile making him seem sad rather than happy. "Yeah," he says, his voice hoarse. "Tell me something. Why did you come with me?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean on this Arctic wild goose chase, looking for readings that may or may not be anything worth checking out. Why did you come?"

"I couldn't let you go alone."

"Why let me go at all?"

"You..." What? What's John going to say to that? That real excitement had sparked in Rodney's eyes for the first time he could remember since Doranda, and he couldn't bear the thought of being the one to extinguish it? That he'd been waiting to see him look like that again for months now, and he'd been starting to wonder whether one of the things he loved most about Rodney had been destroyed permanently? "You seemed sure."

Rodney snorts out a laugh. "I can't imagine why me being sure would hold much water with you at this point."

"It holds water, Rodney." And then, because he doesn't know how else to explain himself, John pulls him closer and kisses him, his hands still clasping Rodney's between them. Rodney reacts as if he'd been waiting for this all along, like he isn't even mildly surprised, and he shifts his mouth against John's until they fit together like a lock and key.

When they pull apart, Rodney's eyes are still closed. John smiles. "As you can see, I'm all about appropriate."

Rodney opens his eyes and gives him his widest, most lopsided smile, the one with the childlike authenticity that never fails to make John smile back. "That's important for someone of your rank."

"A lieutenant colonel in the United States Air Force needs to live up to certain standards," John says, nodding seriously. "Are you any warmer now?"

"Getting there, yes. Hey, wait. Shh...do you notice something different?"

"Yeah, a couple of things," John says as he strokes the palm of Rodney's hand with his thumb.

"No, I mean outside."

John allows the sphere of his concentration to extend beyond the two of them, and now he, too, notices. The wind has stopped. The silence would be complete if it weren't for a faint, tinny noise coming from one corner of the tent—Rodney's headset, which he'd cast aside along with his hat when they'd first come inside. Rodney pulls one hand free and leans away to reach for it.

"Yes? Hello? McKay here!" He turns to John. "The radios are working again."

"Yes, I see that." John rolls onto his back and rubs his eyes. The gods of good timing had never been in the habit of smiling down on him.

"Yes, we're fine. Had a little scare there, barely made it out of the storm and into the tent alive, but everything's...fine now. Good. Five-by-five."

John uncovers his eyes long enough to raise an eyebrow in inquiry. "Five-by-five?"

"We have a man down, though—namely, me—so walking back to the gate will be out of the question. Yes. Yes. Yes, roger that, Teyla. John and I will maintain our current position until the jumper arrives. McKay out." He pulls the headset off and sets it beside him, then turns to look at John again, almost reluctantly. His eyes broadcast all of his emotion without any kind of filter, something that's always been painful and fascinating for John to see. He doesn't think Rodney has the capacity to shield it from others even if he wants to. It's easy to understand why Rodney so often keeps his eyes closed or averted when he's with him.

"I...should we...take the tent down?" Rodney asks, his eyes showing John fear and hope.

"Nah," John answers. He takes hold of his hands again and wonders what Rodney's able to read in his own eyes. "I think we're good."


End file.
